Serious Business
by kinesty
Summary: The Joker has procured some money from the bank. But what is much more fun than money? Right, explosives. To get explosives you have to make business deals with shady characters like yourself. Only no one is as shady as Mister Jay. Rated M for violence.


**Serious Business **

**

* * *

**

The room was kind of shabby, with wood paneled walls and floor that had passed their heyday a long time ago and which absorbed rather than reflected the light. The lighting of the room wasn't too bright anyway but that was not a problem since the people that spent their time there preferred the dark over the light. The few lamps that were situated low above the small tables and revealed only parts of the faces of those who sat there sipping their "spirited" drinks.

At this time of day the bar was not too crowded. It was still too early for the usual clientele to appear. They would come when darkness really fell outside. Sam, the elderly barkeeper, was placing a new set of alcoholic beverages in the fridge. His veined hands had been trembling slightly as of late and he took this as a hint to start thinking about retiring. On the other hand he loved his job and didn't know what he would do all day long once he hung up the black apron he used to wear over his striped shirt. He had grown so accustomed to the old bar and to its guests and he smiled at the thought of all the little things he would miss. For one, he was able to distinguish the occupations of his customers simply by their behavior after all the years he had spent working behind the counter. The little groups at the tables always comprised an illustrious selection of small-time drug dealers, medication smugglers, pimps, petty thieves and contract killers. Everything the local mafia took an interest in, basically. As he let his eyes wander around the room he took in the familiar atmosphere; a mixture between secrecy and relaxation that felt like home for him by now.

Suddenly Sam was jolted out of his thoughts when the door opened and a ray of twilight slipped into the room that was accompanied by the frame of a sturdy man wearing a fedora hat. He was followed by three others who also wore hats and who, like the first one, were clad in long coats with more or less elegant three-piece suits underneath. They all looked as if they came straight from an old gangster movie. Sam wasn't surprised at their apparel because he had seen them before. They were actually some of his more regular customers. The sturdy man went by the name of Pete Dunbar and his fellows were called Craig, Adam and Pat. Their family names Sam did not know but that didn't matter because compared to Pete, they were nobodies anyway. Everyone knew who Pete Dunbar was, though. He was one of Gotham's biggest weapons dealers and rumor had it that he even provided international top terrorist groups with arms and ammunition. The police and the DA office had tried to put him on trial several times but he had wriggled out every single time. Also, witnesses and evidence against him seemed to disappear at a disturbing rate.

Sam watched as the little gang approached the counter behind which Sam was standing and filling square glasses with some amber liquid. With a wry smile Pete Dunbar said to him, "Evening, Sam. Everything alright?"

It was not just a polite phrase. What Pete really wanted to know was whether there were some uncommon activities like undercover agents sneaking around or maybe signs of an upcoming raid.

"Evening, Mr. Dunbar," Sam replied. "Everything's just fine. Your usual table's free and ready for you."

"Thanks, Sam," Pete Dunbar said. "We'll have some beers then."

"OK."

Sam finished the whiskey order he was dealing with and then he took four bottles of beer from the fridge. He put them on a round tray and walked over to the table in the corner where Dunbar and his fellow criminals were sitting, eagerly discussing how best to dispose of something they did not specify in greater detail.

"Here you are, gentlemen."

Sam opened the bottles and placed them in front of the men who were smoking and didn't stop talking, as if they didn't mind that Sam overheard their conversation.

"I say, put them into the trunk and take them to some dumpster at the other end of town," Adam remarked.

"Sam, we're still expecting someone. If he asks for us, will you send him over?" Pete said to Sam.

"Sure."

Sam got back to the counter and went on with his work; he took orders, handed out drinks and made used glasses clean again. He was starting to sweat as he rubbed some nasty stains from the countertop, and then he startled as a gloved hand hit the counter with force right next to where he was wiping. He looked up and felt his sweat turn into ice. He needed a moment to cope with the sight of the new customer which was why he did not at once take in what the person said to him.

"You should really watch out for that vermin."

His voice was barely audible against the background of everyone else's chattering, but Sam caught every word of it because the other spoke very distinctly and rather slowly, too. Sam followed the other's gaze towards the gloved hand on the counter. The hand was now turned over to reveal a smashed fly. Wiping it off on a paper towel that lay next to an empty glass on the counter the guy said, "I'm, ah, looking for someone called Pete Dunbar."

"Yes," Sam had to clear his throat because his voice failed him. "He's over there, with the guys in the hats."

The piercing dark but somehow empty eyes of the other left Sam to wander over to the corner which was half-hidden by clouds of cigarette smoke. Without another word he scuffed into the direction Sam had pointed towards.

Sam exhaled the breath he'd unconsciously been holding ever since he'd stopped talking. That guy had scared the living hell out of him and Sam was not one to be shocked easily. He couldn't even pinpoint what was so scary about the guy. His whole existence just seemed to emanate fear. In the dim light Sam had not really been able to make out the guy's face but underneath that unsettling mask of white, red and black makeup he thought he'd seen a structure that could only remotely resemble a human face. When the guy spoke or smacked his lips (just like he had when he had said Dunbar's name) his face moved really peculiarly, as if it had a life of its own. The most disturbing thing about him next to his horrible, mocking voice, however, were his eyes that didn't show any sign of emotion. Even in the eyes of cold-blooded murderers Sam hadn't seen such a look before. He took the next glass of liquor he could find and swallowed the content to make his heart stop racing and then tried to pretend it had worked.

Meanwhile the cause of Sam's trepidation was walking over to Pete Dunbar's table with a slight limp. It was probably due to the bad lighting of the room and the smoke but no one seemed to even take notice of him as he went. When he arrived at the table, the four men looked up and their conversation came to an abrupt end.

"Pete Dunbar?" the newcomer asked in his drawling tone.

"That would be me," Dunbar said, trying to sound off-hand. "And you must be Mr. Joker?"

He had never seen the guy he was supposed to meet today before, and although he had heard a lot about him he had taken it for just another cock-and-bull story. Clearly, that had been a mistake. So he got up to offer the guy his hand to shake it but the other didn't take it. Instead he slumped down clumsily on the only empty chair, opposite Dunbar who liked to sit with his back to the wall.

The Joker was wearing a purple suit as the others noticed when he rested his elbows on the table and his hems and gloves came into the range of the lamp above the table. Dunbar, who prided himself on his fashion sense, strongly disapproved of the color selection. The Joker ignored Dunbar's suppressed frown. He smacked his lips and said, "Let's get down to the nitty-gritty. I've heard that you can get me a, ah, great variety of firearms."

Dunbar shifted uncomfortably and seemed to be thinking about his answer for a moment but then he nodded.

"Yes, I can provide you with almost anything there is in the weapons department. And I deliver faster than FedEx."

He chuckled at his own joke, faintly echoed by his fellows. The Joker nodded appreciatively and reached into his jacket pocket. He produced a purple sheet of paper and put it on the table.

"Can you get me everything on this list by, say, tomorrow?"

Dunbar took the sheet and unfolded it. Incredulously, his eyes moved over the list. In the meantime the Joker, who had put his forearms on the table in a relaxed manner and was tapping to an inaudible rhythm with his fingers, kept himself busy by inspecting the men's hats and coats, nodding slightly. Craig, Adam and Pat stared back at the extraordinary sight that met their eyes. Obviously the guy was off his rocker, walking around like that but as long as he was willing to make some very decent business deals with Dunbar, they would cut the snide comments. And there was also something strange about the guy, in the way he stared back at them, something dangerous. Something they didn't want to explore. Finally, Adam broke the silence.

"Won't you order a drink, Mr. Joker?" he asked. "This here will probably take a while."

"Like my mother used to say," the Joker replied. "Don't turn to alcohol at the drop of a hat or you might lose your face as well."

The three men watched him uneasily, not knowing whether to laugh or not. Usually you could not laugh at something someone's mother had said. Pat gave a small chuckle that died away soon enough. The Joker leaned back and sat there completely straight-faced, still tapping his fingers. Somehow he seemed bored and all of a sudden his head jerked forwards into the light of the lamp and he hissed at them, "Why so seriousss? I thought you liked jokes!"

When the three men looked at him, paralyzed, a crooked smile crossed his face and he leaned back again, casually taking a switchblade out of his pocket. As he turned it around in his hands, he seemed to be thinking about whether to use it on his future business partners or not while the men watched him carefully and secretly felt around for their guns. Then the Joker smacked his lips again and looked around the room, apparently tired of his boring company. At that moment Dunbar, who had not paid much attention to what his cronies had been doing, finished reading the list and placed it delicately on the table, smoothing it down with his fingertips. When he piped up the Joker turned his attention to him.

"Well, Mr. Joker, this is not an easy task. Most of these things I can supply, like the bazooka and the machine guns. But for the rocket launcher I need to contact a colleague of mine first. You know, that's kind of exotic…"

"I'll pay you 100,000 extra if you deliver the complete list by tomorrow afternoon," the Joker said unaffectedly.

"Oh… That's very generous of you… I will see what I can do," Dunbar stuttered in surprise.

The Joker nodded.

"How much will it cost me?"

Dunbar looked at the list again. He took out an expensive looking fountain pen and wrote down a number at the bottom of the sheet. He slid the paper over to the Joker who merely glanced at it and said, "That seems to be settled then." He stood up and his rutted face vanished from the light cone of the table lamp.

"You'll get the cash on delivery. The address I want you to bring the… delivery… to is on the back of that sheet."

"Alright. But I guess we'll not personally meet tomorrow. Some of my employees will take care of the distribution. So - it's been nice meeting you, Mr. Joker."

The Joker didn't answer; he just nodded, cast a last glance at the four men as if daring them to make a move and turned to walk towards the door so that Sam over at the counter once again caught sight of those horribly misarranged features. He could also see a man suddenly appearing in front of the Joker. He was almost as tall as the Joker and powerfully built. His hands, which were attached to arms clad in a black and red checkered working shirt, clapped in delight as an unpleasant smile spread across his suntanned face with a five o'clock shadow.

"Oh-ho-ho, dude, would you look at that!" he jeered. "You should really fix your makeup, Betty Ann!"

Sam watched the scene from his place at the counter, a sense of foreboding dawning on him. The Joker just stood there – Sam couldn't discern any emotion in his face – and cocked his head, waiting for the guy, who was surrounded by the stale smell of beer, to make way. But instead the man decided it was time to have a little fun with the stranger. Sam could tell that this was not the best of ideas and he rushed over to the hotspot. Before he reached the two men, however, the guy in the checkered shirt had already spoken once again.

"Why are you looking at me like that, punk? Are you touchy about your makeup? Well, don't blame me for it; it was you who put it on! What's up? Are you dumb or just shy? Let's hear if your voice is as ugly as your face paint. Come on, I haven't heard a peep out of you yet. Don't be shy and sing a little song for us, Mary Jane!"

Sam cut in, seizing the man by the shoulder: "Danny, for crying out loud, stop your little jokes and get back to your…"

At that moment, Danny's face contorted with pain, his eyes bulged and he gasped. He lifted his hands up to his chest, mouthing soundless words. In his right chest there sat a switchblade of stainless steel, piercing his lungs. The gloved hand that had led the back-handed strike was still clasping the knife. In one fluent movement the Joker had struck at the man who was blocking his way, and at the same time he had silenced him by perforating the man's breathing organ. It had happened so quickly that Sam had barely seen it. The Joker didn't leave him time to realize what was going on. Instead he stepped sideways and pulled the knife out of Danny, who collapsed, frantically gasping for air with his face in a grimace of pain. Without hesitation the knife came swinging down at Danny again, this time aimed at his stomach where it hit home. With his left arm, the Joker seized Danny by the neck of his shirt so that he wouldn't topple over and then he brought his face close to Danny's.

"I don't mind your laughing at me," he said menacingly, smacking his lips and scrutinizing the man's contorted face. "In fact, laughing is quite a healthy thing. But I can't have you blocking my way. I don't have time for that now."

And he pulled the knife from Danny's body to perform the final and mortal blow by slashing the man's throat and releasing a torrent of blood that hit the worn-out wooden floor as poor Sam started to scream in utter horror. He did not know he was screaming though. He extended his hand towards Danny as if he could thus prevent him from dropping dead to the floor, but Danny slipped from his grip, covering Sam's fingers and face in blood. Sam stumbled backwards to the counter to which he clung on, hoping he would not faint because he felt Danny's still warm blood trickling down from his face and clothes and gluing his fingers to the railing of the counter.

Some of the other guests had jumped up and there was a big tumult over the dying man on the floor since no one had really seen what had happened. This was due to the dim lighting in the bar and the fact that the guests kept out of everyone else's businesses.

The cause of all the trouble with the strangely painted face, however, stood there contemplatively looking at his bloody knife. His suit was astonishingly clean considering the fact that he had just slain a man. Only his pointy shoes were soaked in blood because he stood in the constantly widening pool of red. The Joker carelessly pushed his hair out of his face and stepped out of the bloody puddle. He moved towards the door when Sam's unsteady voice shouted, "Don't let him get away, he killed Danny!"

The Joker stopped dead and turned around to Sam, his eyes traveling over everyone near him to see if they dared to lunge at him. Pete Dunbar and his partners stood there in silence, not moving a muscle, shock written all over their faces. Sam squirmed under the Joker's stare. The latter said very distinctly in his drawling voice: "I would strongly advise against that. Or I'll show you one of my magic tricks and make you _all_ disappear."

At these words he took a purple-painted hand grenade out of the inner pocket of his jacket and put his index finger through the ring of the detonator. There was a lot of swearing in the bar and a lot of commotion as everybody tried to get as far away from the bomb as possible.

"Abracadabra," the Joker murmured and shuffled towards the door, grenade held up high for everybody to see. "Works every time."

When he opened the door he turned around once more and addressed Pete Dunbar: "Don't forget our little agreement, Mr. Dunbar. If you do, I might not be as charming as I am today."

The door closed behind him with a thud.

There was a general gasp of relief and a hasty moving of chairs since no one wanted to be there once the cops arrived at the scene. Meanwhile Sam was peering outside through the stained windowpanes from his place at the counter because he knew that he couldn't walk over there just yet; not with those wobbly knees. He thought he saw the Joker climbing into a dark van in which three figures with stony white clown masks sat waiting for him. When the Joker got in the motor was started and with screeching tires the car took off.


End file.
